


Dead Sexy

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia-Focused, Blood Drinking, Developing Relationship, Eridan's middle name is melodrama, M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Rainbow Drinkers, Troll Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Which A Lonely Seadweller Not Quite Old Enough For Conscription Discovers His Latent Rainbow Drinker Nature, Attempts To Come To Terms With His Changed State, And Sets Out In Search Of Sustenance, Finding Not Only Blood But Also A Quadrant Fill In The Process; Contains One Internet Shopping Binge, Implied Violence Against Marine Life, Caste Hierarchy, Awkward Quadrant Negotiations, Explicit Blood Consumption, A Wwicked Dashin Cape, and E%cessive F001ishness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megan/gifts).



The first thing you think when you wake up is _cod, that was embarrassin, im reely glad nobody saww that_. The second thing—well, the second thing is annoyance at your appallingly bad headache, but that hardly counts as a proper thought, does it? So your second proper thought is when you get a good look at your hands, and it's roughly, _Wwhat the fuck suddenly im a wwinter?_ After _that_ you notice that the sun is up, which you can be excused from not picking up on right away on account of your skin doesn't feel like it's on fire, that being what ought to happen to any normal, healthy troll caught out in full sunlight.

You think you need to go have a lie down for a bit.

You peel your sorry protesting carcass up off the deck of your ship, with one last sour glance at the rigging that you fell—that _tripped you_ , clearly, fucking traitorous rope. Surely once you get below decks and maybe pour yourself a stiff drink and fix your hair, you'll feel better about all this.

Only then you actually get into your cabin and shut the door, leaving the weirdly comfortable sunlight behind, and in its absence you discover something else: you're _glowing_. Your skin isn't just frosty white, it's providing your own fucking illumination as you stretch out one hand to contemplate this development. This is fucked right up, like something out of a trashy novel. You tongue your fangs a bit, but you've always had a mouth full of elegant little razors, so it's hard to tell if there's a difference. You imagine yourself ripping out the throat of some lowblood with them, and _ick_ , honestly.

...Then you imagine yourself sipping blood out of a goblet, like a troll with class. Your digestive sac growls like the littlest horrorterror and your mouth fucking waters. Well. This could get kind of awkward, couldn't it?

Oh, _fuck_ , you hope that thing about mirrors isn't true.

You might possibly bolt for your nearest one, just a little, and god you look like a panicky disaster with your glasses all skewed funny and your hair sticking up stiff on one side apparently because you bled into it but that's _fixable_ , right, at least you can see yourself. You rinse the blood out and start running a comb through to see if you can tease it back into better shape. The glasses are pretty much a loss, but maybe you were about due to change your style anyhow. You're probably going to need a whole new wardrobe, aren't you? That's the kind of challenge you're happy to rise to.

While you study the current options in your closet—some of your old flarping gear would have been perfect, wouldn't it, if you hadn't grown so much in the last couple sweeps—you sort of try to put it together in your head what must have happened. You took a nasty fall in the midst of doing some maintenance work up at the top of the mainmast (tall ships have _class_ , okay, it doesn't matter that they're fiddlier and trickier in spots than those drone-produced heavy engine monsters), and had an awfully bad landing. Given the evidence, it seems likely that what happened was in fact you died, for the first time since the lot of you won the game.

All things considered, you did a pretty smart job of it, actually. Nobody was there to see you be a broken-up mess, and now you've had a chance to put yourself back together, and is there _anything_ more tragically romantic than rainbow drinkers? You're pretty sure there is _not_ , given the smashing box office success of that thing Kar likes to cry over, _In Which A Young Lowblood, Bored With Her Meaningless Existence, Attempts To Auspisticize Between A Repressed Rainbow Drinker And A Smolderingly Attractive Werebeast, Resulting In Both Of Them Waxing Red For Her_ , et cetera.

Still, you're not above admitting you might need a little bit of help.

CA: kan  
CA: kan are you awwake  
CA: kan you gotta help me  
CA: i really need some good advvice right noww  
CA: an im pretty sure youre the only one qualified  
GA: Of Course  
GA: Allow Me To Drop Everything And Spring To Your Aid  
GA: Surely There Is Nothing More Valuable I Could Do With My Time  
CA: wwoww thats the nicest thing i evver heard you say  
GA: It Is Human Sarcasm  
GA: Intended To Convey Bored Contempt  
CA: youre too good to be still messin wwith human things kan  
CA: lets just skip all that nonsense an movve on to the important stuff  
CA: here take a look at these  
CA: an tell me wwhat you think  
CA: alternia.etsy.com/listing/612.../  
CA: alternia.etsy.com/listing/102.../  
CA: alternia.etsy.com/listing/413.../  
GA: This Is Your Emergency  
GA: You Wish Me To Help You Choose A Cape  
CA: look its important ok  
CA: classic part a the look an all  
CA: i kinda like the second one  
CA: but i cant decide if its tryin too hard havvin a bright linin like that  
GA: What Classic Look Exactly Are You Attempting To Replicate  
CA: romantic rainboww drinker aristocrat a course  
GA: .....  
GA: ...........  
GA: Why  
CA: the case you gavve me finally wwent full blowwn  
GA: I Do Not Recall Giving You Anything Recently  
GA: Except Perhaps My Attention At The Start Of This Conversation  
GA: Which Appears To Have Been A Grave Error  
CA: gravve error i like that  
CA: you think i should be tryin for death puns  
CA: that might be a nice touch  
GA: I Think I Am About To Regret Asking This  
GA: But Do You Mean To Tell Me You Have Become A Rainbow Drinker  
CA: a rainboww drinker in need a fashion advvice kan  
CA: i need a new wwardrobe ovver here  
CA: an the cape is like the cornerstone a that enterprise  
GA: I Wish I Were More Surprised That This Is Your Primary Concern  
GA: Get The One With The Purple Lining  
GA: That Shade Of Blue Would Not Work With Your Eyes  
GA: Also  
GA: Do Not Kill Any Of Our Acquaintances With Your New Hungers  
GA: You Can Live Quite Comfortably On One Or Two Donors With Hearty Constitutions  
GA: And That Will Prevent Me From Needing To Kill You Again  
CA: its a nice shade a blue  
CA: but i guess ill trust your judgment on this  
CA: so on the subject a donors  
CA: you got any recommendations howw to get somethin goin in that area  
CA: i mean howwd you land vris anywway  
GA: Excuse Me  
GA: I Have To  
GA: Go

Okay, so Kan is still too shy about her thing with Vris to give you any real hints, you'll manage on that score. At least she got you straightened out on the matter of the cape. The rest will take care of itself, right? You have _practice_ at building swank outfits around that one perfect accessory.

You spend a little while longer shopping, and then spend some time brooding over how unfair it is that delivery out to your shiphive takes so long. The brooding's good practice, though, isn't it? Pretty sure that goes with the territory, all the romance of being tormented by your daywalking affliction. You try brooding in the mirror a bit. Oh, that's lovely.

Eventually hunger gets to you, and you realize when you go rifle through your nutrition block that you're going to have to take this blood-drinking thing seriously: there is _not a damn thing_ in your thermal hull that looks appealing. Unfortunately your shiphive's location is inconvenient for a hunting rainbow drinker in addition to being a terrible spot for express delivery. Seadwellers tend to give each other a lot of space, given how violent you all are even when you're not ravening undead. You personally exacerbated that tendency by doing lunch duty for Gl'ybgolyb for all those perigees; by now, it's a good long haul to get to the nearest living trolls, and you're already hungry.

You swim for your supper. It is an arduous and frankly undignified affair that includes an octopus, a fat seal, and a fistfight with a shark. You don't want to talk about it.

What you have discovered, by the time you haul yourself back on board, dripping and in need of hair gel, is that you need to find a donor sooner rather than later for the sake of both your dignity and your palate. You're going to need a plan.

You are Eridan Ampora, and you are a _master_ of plans.

You figure, step one has to be research. You knew your own abilities, your charms, before this happened. Now you just have to figure out what kind of bonus talents you get to go along with your romantic new affliction. You sit down at your husktop and queue up some movies on the subject. It's all fiction and whatever, but you can sort through it for common themes that put you on the right track, yeah?

Mind you some of the common themes are just plain hoofbeastshit. Like how the rainbow drinkers in movies don't show up in mirrors (thank fuck that one was fake, ugh) or like how they stumble around blind and mostly helpless in the dark when you know Kan doesn't have problems like that. The bit with the bewitching powers, though, that's pretty good. You wouldn't mind that, being able to gaze soulfully into someone's eyes and have them helpless in the face of your magnetism. You really will have to give that one a go.

It takes approximately three quarters of forever before all the stuff you ordered arrives. By that time you are thoroughly sick of the taste of everything that bleeds and lives near enough your shiphive to be easily hunted. You have also watched the better movies in your queue about six times each. It is _about damn time_ you get out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with adorable panicking-in-the-mirror!Eridan art by Jupebox! http://jupebox.tumblr.com/post/23435964807/um-so-i-was-browsing-ao3-yesterday-and-found-this


	2. Chapter 2

You go over the calculations you've made one more time. There is a fine balance to be maintained between maximizing the strength of construction and sacrificing crucial flexibility, and your previous endeavors have all failed in one direction or the other; in the corner of your workroom there is a shameful pile of your snapped failures. But surely you are approaching that balance. Perhaps tonight you will make a bow that you can successfully draw.

The dignified clop of Aurthour's hooves becomes audible in the hallway outside; you set down your welding torch carefully. Aurthour raps gently at the door before opening, and harrumphs in the apologetic way that means he would prefer not to disturb you, except that something is urgent. You nod for him to continue. He indicates that you have company waiting for you upstairs.

You must admit that you are confused. Nepeta is off on some hopbeast-brained adventure with Pyrope; you don't expect her to return for another perigee at least. If she were here in an emergency, Aurthour would make that clear. You...generally do not have other guests.

Since it appears not to be an emergency, you take time enough to wash your face and hands and towel off before you climb the stairs to the main floor of your hive. Your visitor is not waiting in the receptionblock, confusing you further; Aurthour indicates the front door with an apologetic twitch of his bristling mustache. You reassure him; you know he would not be so rude as to leave a visitor outside without good reason. You open the door yourself, wary, in case something outside is a threat.

You find no threats outside, or at least none you cannot handle. Eridan Ampora is on your doorstep, carrying no weapons, his cloak billowing in the evening breeze. You wonder if he took up a position deliberately to catch the wind favorably; you are familiar with the weather patterns around your mountaintop hive, and you are fairly certain his chosen waiting spot is ideal. It suits him well, drat him. He looks atrociously handsome.

"Ampora," you say, a greeting. You are unsure how to proceed. Encouraging him seems like a bad idea.

"Equius," he says, almost purring, and if he is still inappropriately familiar he has at least managed all of the syllables of your name, for once. "Nice evvenin, isn't it?"

The nape of your neck prickles; something is not right here. "You are not wearing your glasses," you say, which seems like a trivial detail to note, except that most highbloods' eyes become _more_ sensitive with age, not less. Looking directly at the rich violet of his makes you vaguely uncomfortable, reminded of the regal position he holds so poorly. "And you are...glowing."

"Shimmerin, more like," Ampora says, cocking one eyebrow and giving you a terribly predatory smile. "On account a I'm prince a the dawwn and such. Wwhat do you think?"

You blink at him. "That is a rather lurid epithet, Ampora; are you feeling quite well?"

The smile gets wider. "Bit peckish, noww you mention it," he says. "You should invvite me in." You stare at him for a moment, dumbfounded, entirely too conscious of the warring imperatives currently seeking to direct your response. He is a seadweller, and thus there is tradition to support you in refusing him; yet he is _giving you an order_ , and he is qualified to do so. "Come on, hurry up," he says when you hesitate, and that decides you.

"Come in," you say, stepping back. "Please forgive my hesitation."

For an instant his shoulders sag as if in relief, before he pulls himself together into an attitude of triumph. (You grit your teeth and try not to respond to either of these displays. The latter would be inappropriate, as you have a perfectly satisfactory rivalry already in hand, and the former...you will not think of it. ) "Consider it forgivven," he says as he breezes past you. "I'm feelin all kinds a magnanimous this evvenin."

Again you stop to consider your confused reactions: his arrogance is infuriating, at the most surface level, and yet the certainty that it is _right_ will not leave you alone. So few of your acquaintances treat the hemospectrum with the gravity it deserves. "The first door to your left, please," you say, and Ampora stalks into the receptionblock as if he is the rightful owner of your hive. You follow him, watching him consider the available seating and then decline to use any of it. His cape swirls about his ankles as he moves. The remainder of his costume is old-fashioned in a dignified, highblooded way; it makes him look older, and makes you feel discourteous for receiving him in your work clothes.

No. He called on you unannounced. Of course you were not prepared. "What brings you to my hive tonight, Ampora?" you ask.

He shrugs. "You tryin to tell me I can't make a social call noww an then?" he says.

"O-of course not," you say. Where is your dignity? How are you letting him fluster you so much so easily? Where are your _manners_? "...Would you care for some refreshment? I could have Aurthour bring something."

"Nah," Ampora says, waving off the suggestion, his hand glittering with jewels. They catch the light from his skin, make him look that much more regal, that much more strange. "He ain't got wwhat I'm lookin for."

At that, indignation overpowers deference. "I will have you know," you say, fists clenched, claws digging into the palms of your gloves, "that Aurthour is _the best butler there is_ , and if you intend to slander him under my roof—"

"Wwhat?" Ampora says. "No, cod, Eq, calm down, that's not wwhat I meant." He gestures at his face impatiently. "I kind a havve special needs to wworry about, is all. Wwouldn't havve thought your lusus wwould havve blood on tap, unless you'vve been holdin out on us all this time."

You swallow hard, staring at him. His skin, his ludicrous new title for himself, his costume—of course. "This is a recent development, is it not?" you ask.

Ampora nods. "Less than a full perigee," he says. "You're the second person I'vve told, after Kan."

"Thank you," you say after a second's hesitation. You are not sure how much to read into his coming to you with the news. From what you gather, he has few trolls he is close to; he never really did, and after his actions in the game the lowbloods have mostly avoided him entirely. Their wariness is only proper, given how dangerous highbloods become as they mature, but it seems to have been hard on him. "I...appreciate your candor."

"I had to think long an hard about wwhat to do wwith myself after it happened," he says. "Figured evventually I could probably come to you."

Your heartvalves do something entirely uncalled for. "And you are here to...what?" you ask, trying to deflect your own attention from the shades of meaning in that statement. "Order me to keep you company?"

"Wwould that wwork?" Ampora asks, nakedly, desperately hopeful.

You should simply say no. It wouldn't do to encourage him. If you let him get comfortable, he'll _stay_ , being arrogant and uncivil and demanding attention. "Maybe," you admit.

He looks outrageously pleased. "Havve to givve that a try, then," he says.

"I...would rather you didn't," you say uncomfortably.

"Huh." He seems to consider that for a moment. "Gonna kick me out if I don't?"

You could, you think. "I suppose not," you concede. "Though I must warn you I was not expecting to entertain. My plans for tonight included primarily engineering experiments, perhaps with an interruption to converse with Nepeta later on." You often need to converse with Nepeta after a few hours of uninterrupted engineering work; it prevents you from destroying all of your progress.

"I can keep myself outta trouble," Ampora insists. He sounds perfectly self-assured, but if you pay close attention it seems as though his poise is brittle, a mask that could still slip. You shouldn't be paying such close attention; it leaves you feeling too many awkward things.

"I fear that I am poor company when I am working," you warn him. "However, my hive is equipped with a modest library. Perhaps you would like to pass some time there until I can finish my current round of trials?"

"Maybe I could pick out a book an come sit wwith you wwhile I read it," Eridan counter-offers. It's less an order than a plea, though he _is_ staring at you rather intently, as though there is something he wants from you and he is attempting to transmit the idea straight into your mind. Perhaps he took you seriously when you said you'd prefer he didn't order you. (Perhaps you shouldn't have said it; you could have had—no, stop that. He's waiting for an answer.)

You nod stiffly, trying not to examine the desire to please him. "I would have no objection," you say. "Though I must warn you that my work area is a mess, and not conducive to comfort."

He shakes his head; you realize you expected that. "Don't evven wworry about it," he says. He winks at you, drat him. "That part _is_ an order."

Your cheeks feel hot, and all your towels are downstairs. "Thank you," you say. "The—the library is this way."


	3. Chapter 3

Eq's got a pretty decent book collection for a stodgy traditionalist with no sense of romance. Mind, most of the histories are written by landdwellers and full of _gross inaccuracies_ when it comes to the glory of your own forebears, but you can't hold that against him. Well, no, you could, but you don't especially feel the need. You're all magnanimous and shit, like a benevolent despot.

Also he smells fucking delicious, that might be a part of your decision-making process if you're honest with yourself. Like, okay, he sweats all the time and that's supposed to be gross or whatever, but it's more or less just saltwater—familiar territory—tinged with a few spare platelets—more appealing than they used to be. He's ignoring the shit out of you while he works on his project thing, or whatever the refined, fancy-pants language version of ignoring the shit out of you is. But you can't seem to return the favor, because he _moves_ and his scent kind of wafts in your direction and your mouth waters.

You maybe should have had a snack before you got here. He's going to take some fucking finesse, some _seducing_ , if you want to (a), have a chance to make this a regular thing, and (b), not get any bones broken or nothing. You didn't have a snack and now you are distracted from your reading by looking at the gleam of sweat on his bare shoulders and wondering if he tastes as good as he smells.

Really you're feeling pretty good about your choice here. Find someone with a sturdy constitution, Kan said, and here you are finding someone who's got strength to spare _and_ a healthy respect for your position of authority, despite being high enough up the spectrum himself that putting fang to his throat sounds appetizing. You just need a way to get him with the program and you'll be set.

Something on his worktable snaps with a loud metallic _ping_ , and he flinches back with a hiss as bits go flying. " _Fiddlesticks_ ," he says, with feeling.

"Not goin so good, huh?" you say. You're on page 213 of the book. You put it down. "Maybe you wwanna, oh," and you forget what you were going to say after that because one of those flying bits grazed his cheek and it's dripping just a thin little trickle of deep blue blood and you're moving without stopping to ask for directions or permission or what have you, leaning in—

And you run smack into his hand, like hitting a brick wall, the breath knocked right out of you. "Excuse me," Equius says, sounding like he's choking on something. He absconds.

Well, fuck.

You stare at the door and wonder whether you should go after him and really, _really_ , it would have been nice to have that hypnotizing people thing work. You didn't even get a taste, and you just know it would have been delicious. And now he's probably going to be all stuffy and cranky about how you're not to be trusted and all that. There's a feeling you could stand to not revisit, thanks ever so much.

Shit, you aren't even sure whether you should be trying to find him or if that would look too much like an act of aggression and get you smacked for your trouble. You rub the tender spot on your breastbone. You're pretty sure he wasn't trying to hurt you just then, on account of nothing's _broken_ , just maybe bruised some. Rainbow drinker or no, you don't think you want to be on the wrong end of Equius Zahhak actually _trying_ to do harm.

Maybe you should just go home. Go back to your hive and see about coming up with a nice fancy apology or something and then try again later. Write him a card or something. You bet Kan would help you come up with the words. _sorry i wwas ovvercome by the sight a your blood an i hope wwe can still be_ okay there's the trouble, isn't it. You're not rightly sure _what_ you want to be with Equius, and you've probably already ruined it.

You bury your face in your hands. Eridan Ampora can't have nice things, chapter one zillion, you don't even know. You've stopped counting. Why do you even _try_? Clearly you're just a fucking wreck, have been since you were six sweeps old. Nobody's ever wanted you around and nobody ever will and you're a fucking disgrace.

The sound of Equius clearing his throat makes you jump practically out of your skin. "I...apologize for my discourtesy," he says. You look up at him and he makes this completely horrified face. "Truly, I—are you all right?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. _Mortified_ , that's what they call this, and fuck, your lashes are wet. "Totally fuckin fine," you say, and he makes a noise at your bad language, whoops. "Didn't mean to go all weird on you like that, and I, ah." You trail off because you can still smell it on him and it's making your mouth water and you _really_ should have gotten a snack because this is the opposite of suave right here.

"I hope that this will alleviate your discomfort," Equius says and the smell gets stronger and you open your eyes to see him holding out a cup, a fucking _pewter goblet_ , for you to take. Your hands shake a bit as you reach for it. "I do not know how much you require to be...satisfied, but this should at least suffice for the worst of your hunger."

You bring the goblet up to your face with both hands, and for a second you just breathe in deep, like you're at a fancy fucking party admiring the bouquet of the wine they're serving. You lick your lips and take a sip of the still-warm blood and possibly you moan, a bit, at how that tastes.

Once you've started you kind of can't stop, swallowing and swallowing and feeling the way it just sings right through your nerves, _exactly_ what you needed. It's rich and savory, this complicated blend of flavors in your mouth, and it's not like you'd never tasted blood before you turned but you're damn sure it didn't taste like this. You're sorry when the goblet is empty but you're okay, too. You're loads better. You give Equius a smile that probably looks kind of stupid and you don't even care. "That," you tell him, "was the most upright delicious thing I'vve tasted since I turned. Possibly evver."

He fucking blushes. It's adorable. "I have always tried to take care of my body," he says. "I am glad the result is satisfactory."

"Satisfactory is like, the understatement a the swweep, Eq," you say. Then you take in the fresh little bandage at the inside of his elbow and you actually process the fact that he apparently _absconded so he could bleed himself for you_ and for like half a second you debate whether that's creepy as fuck or kind of touching. What kind of mad scientist just keeps the proper equipment on hand to draw blood at a moment's notice?

The kind that's happy to do you fucking favors, apparently. You aren't even sure what to do with yourself and you're pretty sure that the rainbow drinker was _never_ the one to swoon in any of the movies you watched. "Seriously," you tell him, "that wwas, like, exactly wwhat I needed." You get up from your seat so you won't have to crane your neck up at him so much, and give him your best smile. "Maybe there's somethin to all that blood superiority stuff after all."

Equius coughs and blusters a bit, looking like he's not sure if you're standing too close or not. "Certainly not the circumstances in which I would expect to have that affirmed, but, ah. I do appreciate the compliment."

He's sort of terrible at dealing with people, and you should know. The funny thing is, instead of making you roll your eyes and scoff, it sort of makes you want to fuss over him and pet him and see if you can make him do that blushing thing again and this moment is probably stretching far enough to get a bit awkward, you think. You're not sure what to say. You weren't planning on this bit.

"I believe I have reached a point of diminishing returns with my work for this evening," Equius says. It's hard to tell with him wearing his sunglasses even in here, but you think he's not looking at you. Deliberate-like, the careful way you don't look at something you don't want to spook. "Would you care to adjourn upstairs?" All deferential, as if it's up to you. A troll could get used to that.

"Sounds good to me," you say, and you think maybe that thing his mouth just did was trying to be a smile before he told it to stop. He shouldn't tell it to stop. You'll have to work on that. "Lead the wway."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. Megan, I'm so sorry for wandering off this long! I hope it's worth the wait.
> 
> Holy-shit-gooey-romance warning on this chapter, guys. XD

You find it surprisingly easy to adjust to Eridan's presence. You expect the points where he is needy, overbearing, and desperate for attention; you are taken by surprise when you discover there are also points where he is capable of holding an intelligent debate. (His opinions on seadwealler martial superiority are ludicrous and execrable, but that, also, you were expecting.) You discover that in his quiet moments, when he's reading a book and chewing on his lip or even just gazing out at the distant plains from one of your windows, there is something fascinatingly strange about him. He looks almost unreal, gently luminous in the mundane settings of your hive, and you find yourself seeking out chances to watch him.

When Nepeta gets back from her adventures and contacts you on Trollian to ask how you've been, you tell her about Eridan's visit. You stumble over words trying to talk about how it feels to have him around. There is a distressingly long pause, after which she asks when exactly he arrived. You realize it's been almost an entire perigee. if he hurts you, i'll gut him, she replies matter-of-factly. She doesn't even use any puns.

Oh dear.

You put the thought out of your head as best you can—not very well, in fact—while you go to draw his regular meal. You're glad that you have the STRENGTH to make this easy; you drink a little more milk than you used to, and your superior constitution handles the rest. He unfailingly compliments you on it, too. Pride makes your bloodpusher swell, and pump a little harder.

Still, the two of you maintain a polite detente until the next time you spend an evening with Aradia—that experience, while thrilling as always, does not leave you at your best. You stagger home in a punch-drunk haze, your lip split, one eye swelling shut, the marks of teeth and claws still stinging all over your skin. It's wonderful to be alive. You hope Aurthour has already prepared your bath. Surely he has. He is simply the best butler there is.

You let yourself in, and while Aurthour is waiting right there with a warm, moist towel, he is not alone. Eridan paces just a little further into the entrance hallway, looking up with his eyes wide when the door closes behind you.

"Holy shit, Eq," he says, and then his long elegant fingers fly to his mouth when you flinch. "I mean fiddlesticks or wwhatevver." That sounds ridiculous, coming from him, and you smile before you think better of it. Your lip starts bleeding again. "Nep said you'd got Ar black for you, but wwoww."

"I do wish she would refrain from gossiping about my romantic situation," you say stiffly. "I know I have told her as much before."

Eridan shrugs, and somehow the very indolence of the gesture looks noble. "Wwasn't like wwe started out tryin a gossip," he says. "More like she had a couple a questions an then it only seemed fair for me to take a go."

That seems extremely worrisome, but before you can decide whether you want to know what had your moirail interrogating your guest—forewarned being forearmed—Eridan is relieving Aurthour of the moist towel. "What are you doing?" you protest. "Aurthour is perfectly capable—"

"I knoww," Eridan says. "Best there is, right? But I wwanna do this for you. Just...just let me, okay?"

His tone doesn't make it an order in the least, but you are happy to take it as one—and then struck by the way that makes you feel. When Aradia gives you orders, your blood sings with thrilled, illicit fury: you _should not_ do as a rustblood commands, and the fact that she can and will throw you bodily across a room should you attempt to assert the dominance that is your bloodright only feeds the pitch fires.

With Eridan, lately, now that you're used to him...there's something soothing about it. Relaxing, like the first moment of sinking into sopor and feeling it take your weight. You hold still and let him wipe the blood and dirt from your face and the very gentleness of his touch humbles you, makes you feel shaky and weak.

"You got the ablution tub full too, huh," he says. Quietly. You don't know what to do with his carefulness. "You wwanna let me take care a the rest a this?"

You swallow hard. "If you—if you wished to assert your control at this point, I would," _not mind_ , you nearly say at first, but you are trying to be direct, "be grateful."

Eridan smiles at you in a way that you think—you suddenly _hope_ —he has never smiled at anyone. "You're fuckin ridiculous, you knoww that?" he says gently. His hand is cool against the side of your face. "Come on. I'm marchin you off to get wwashed up, an I ain't gonna take any blueblood sass."

"As you wish," you say, your shoulders sagging in blissful release.

You follow him to the ablution block as he strides ahead of you imperiously, his boots ringing on the stone floors. Prince of the dawn, he called himself. You see the regal claim now, and it's glorious.

In the ablution block the air is steamy; the tub is full nearly to overflowing. Eridan unclasps his cape and hangs it up. "Go on, strip," he says as he starts removing his rings. "Gonna havve to just burn those clothes, looks like. She really made a mess a you."

Embarrassment warms your cheeks, to have him be so frank in his assessment—to have him here, assessing you, when your kismesis has just wrecked you so intimately. But your hands are already at work, stripping away the ruins of your clothes. He is correct; they are fit for nothing but the incinerator at this point. You leave them in a heap on the floor and step into the tub in a hurry.

Eridan finishes with his rings and rolls up his sleeves before he comes over to kneel beside the tub with you. "Kinda a disaster," he says softly, touching your brow just above your black eye. You close your eyes, and it feels like breathing isn't quite working right. This is almost unbearably red. "There you go. Relax an let me do evverythin."

You feel like you're coming home, to a place you've never been but always hoped was real. You let the hot water soothe your aches, and Eridan washes the filth from all of your little injuries. "That's right," he says when you move to accommodate his hands. "Doin real good." The words are a benediction. When he pushes you down to wet your hair, you let him; he is the only person besides Nepeta whom you have allowed to physically push you around with no resistance.

That thought—its implications—should panic you, but instead the calm only sinks further into your bones. Eridan lathers your hair, gentle but thorough, and you let him dip you below the surface again to rinse. You open your eyes when you come up from the water and you catch the look on his face, hungry and wondering in equal measure.

You lick your lips, afraid to disrupt this moment but wanting to ask for more. He glances down at your mouth, then up at your eyes again. "You knoww, I ain't had anythin to drink tonight," he says. "You all bled out already?"

It means a lot that he would ask instead of simply assuming. "I'm fine," you assure him. "All of this is superficial."

His lips part, and you're arrested by the sharp points of his teeth against his lip. "Head back," he says. "I wwanna see you bare your throat."

You swallow a hideously undignified sound and do as he orders. Cloth shifts as he moves and then you feel his cool lips brush a kiss against your skin, still cautious, as if he thinks you might still refuse. You do no such thing.

His bite scarcely hurts at all, and then you're rewarded with his whimper of pleasure against the skin of your throat. He suckles at the tiny wound he's made, trembling against you, the whole experience so erotic you feel flushed all over. You reach up to touch him in return, to rest one hand against his back as gently as you can.

Eridan tenses for an instant as you move, then relaxes again when it becomes apparent that you don't plan to push him away. He moans, mouth working as he sucks your blood, and an instant later he's climbing into the tub with you, still dressed, straddling your lap.

"Oh," you say in surprise—that he would risk his clothes, more than anything; you know how vain he is about his wardrobe—and he sits up, taking your face in both hands. His mouth is stained bright blue.

"Don't fight me," he says, and you shake your head: never. He leans in to kiss your mouth then, and you learn the difference between flushed kisses and caliginous ones. His tongue scarcely teases yours and he uses his teeth not at all, despite the temptation your barely-scabbed-over lip must present. His fingers ghost across your face and his fins flutter, blushing violet right to their tips.

You split your own lip again, catching it between your teeth to reopen it so you can feed him in the midst of the kiss. "Oh cod," he whimpers. "You did that on purpose."

"Yes," you admit. You want him to know.

"That's the most romantic thin I evver fuckin heard," Eridan says, and kisses you again. He drinks blood from your mouth, the blood you freely offered, the blood he has such high praise for. You feel like you're floating, like you might simply fall to pieces, too comfortable to even keep yourself together. You don't come back to yourself until Eridan starts squirming in your lap, rhythmic and purposeful.

"Forgive me," you say then against his mouth, and he pulls back enough to see you blush. "I—I am not certain I would be able to, ah, take carnal activities further so soon after an...encounter with my kismesis."

Eridan pouts, and you try to stifle your laughter even though it's absurdly charming. "Wwell," he says, "I _guess_ I gotta livve wwith that. Wwe can keep doin this though, yeah?"

"Yes," you say. "Please."

The _please_ seems to mollify him. "An I get first dibs tomorroww," he adds.

You smile. He is still ridiculous. "Absolutely," you promise.

"All right then," Eridan says. He kisses you again.

It is much more than simply all right. You'll tell him when he lets you up for air.


End file.
